


Revenant

by cherryjam (blueskull)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Fantasy, Herbalism, Hyur Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Nature Conservation, Selectively Mute Main Character, and no ascians, apart from a few things, correction he used to be laurentius, emet is called solus in this au, eventually, im awful with titles so it may or may not change in the future, oh also laurentius is hyth, so now hyth is named cyrus, somewhat canon compliant, then 5.3 reminded me there was a laurentius in arr, there's no wol, yes this is a theme
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:14:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25720408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueskull/pseuds/cherryjam
Summary: This idyllic little town is so very boring...But for the moment it suits Solus dus Galvus fine.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Kudos: 16





	1. Omen of Beginning

This idyllic little town is so very boring...

But for the moment it suits Solus dus Galvus fine.

There’s little to do, he can even nap on the job...so long as Cyrus doesn’t see fit to nag him...

“Say, Sol,” Speak of the devil, and he arrives. “I think that girl might be a revenant.”

A sharp exhale leaves the Garlean soldier’s nose as he levels an unimpressed stare at his supposed best friend.

“And which _girl_ might you be referring to?” They’re standing in the middle of a mostly crowded marketplace...aside from the obvious berth most of the residents give them. “There are many here, as I’m sure you can see...and none of them have any obvious traits.”

“That one.” Cyrus jerks his head slightly. “The girl with the black hair, and the basket. She might be hiding a tail or something underneath that skirt of hers, you never know...”

Another sigh.

Unfortunately, this time Orphus sees fit to interrupt their conversation.

“You should check.” He claps Solus on the shoulder, and he has to resist the urge to shake the hand off. Annoyance bridles in his stomach.

“Why don’t _you_ do it?” he snaps with a thinly veiled glare. The other man shrugs.

“You’re supposed to be good at that revenant finding stuff. Even Cyrus says so...right?”

“Indeed! So I think you should take the chance, old friend, let us know what you find.”

“There’s no reason for me -- “

Just as he begins speaking, some sort of commotion rises up. It’s from the direction Cyrus had pointed in the first place.

Someone appears to be heckling the dark-haired woman for something; a second later, it becomes clear. Someone is attempting to pull something out of her grasp.

When neither Orphus nor Cyrus make a move, Solus sighs yet again, rolling his shoulders as he pushes himself away from the wall. One hand goes to his gunblade as he strides forth. The crowd disperses almost immediately, but the scruffy-looking girl grappling at the woman’s -- belongings? -- does not.

“Some sort of problem here?” Solus asks boredly. It’s almost comical how quickly the red-haired girl halts. She turns slowly -- one eye is obscured by an eyepatch. The remaining one glowers at him until she spies the blade.

Then she runs off and down an alley.

He doesn’t bother making chase, instead looking to the dark-haired woman. The one Cyrus had said might be a revenant. Up close, she certainly doesn’t look it. How on earth had he come to that conclusion?

“Are you all right?” he supposes he should ask, if only because she stares at that -- ahh, it’s a book. Dimly, he wonders why a brigand would want to steal something like that.

The woman gives a short nod, her gaze meeting his as she clutches the book close to her chest. Something feels odd, so he prompts her again.

“What’s your name?”

Instead of responding to him, she opens her book. Again, Solus cannot help the sense of _wrongness_ \-- why does she not simply _speak_?

A moment later, after an apologetic glance up with furrowed brows, the dark-haired woman holds the book up to face him. He squints at the words written neatly there. 

> _My name is Arianna Rowen._

One of his brows lifts.

“A mute...?” So _that_ was the reason for the lack of verbal acknowledgment? Well, he supposes it matters little, assuming it does not hinder her ability to work. Certainly does not make her someone especially abnormal. “And what do you do?”

There’s no prefix by her name. Likely she’s missed one of the tribunus’ announcements...or, rather, all of them. Perhaps she’s merely a traveller...though she doesn’t exactly wear the garb of one.

He shifts his weight to one leg as he awaits her response, watching her scribble in that book of hers. His golden gaze flicks away a moment to watch the other passersby, until she holds up the tome again. Of course neither Cyrus nor Orphus are anywhere to be found.

> _I am an herbalist. I make poultices and teas at home._

“And you live here?”

> _Yes._

Arianna...

The murmurs of his colleagues reverberates in his ears. If she has anything to hide, she should deny him his request.

“Say, miss Rowen, I’m afraid I’m awfully thirsty. Would you mind if I joined you for a cup of one of those teas of yours? I’d pay you, of course.” He makes a vague gesture toward his coin pouch at his belt. He watches her watch him, as her green eyes flick from his face to the gunblade strapped at his back.

Not exactly what he’d wanted, but still —

Arianna gives a small nod of assent.

Solus’ brow quirks again, though he makes no comment. Perhaps she really does have nothing to hide. He is...relieved? The prickly sensation fades.

When she makes note that she still has some shopping to do, he bids her to go on her way.

“There’s no need for me to escort you, I assume...unless you’re worried about a repeat of this incident.”

> _No, thank you. It is all right._

He hasn’t asked if it was all right, and frankly he doesn’t think he cares. He’s simply _curious_.

Will she try to slip away? Surely that’s what a revenant might do. Use the opportunity to escape to whatever little hole she might have for herself...

Maybe he’s _daring_ her to do so.

He leans lightly against the brick wall, eyes hawklike as he scans the crowd. There are other exit points to the market, of course, but he is ever so _intrigued_. If she’ll simply try to leave.

The minutes feel too long. The sense of unease returns, burdening him with its weight. He wants to snap his teeth at a nonexistent bit -- he has no idea why he’s this annoyed --

And suddenly she is there, coming to a nervous halt in front of him. Her basket is full of various plants and small cloths, wrapping...something. One of her hands lifts to run a hand through her hair as she fidgets.

“...Oh.” He can’t tell whether he’s disappointingly surprised or surprisingly disappointed. “I didn’t think you’d come back.”

He doesn’t miss the confused glances the other residents send his way, and doesn’t miss the way she tenses beneath their heavy stares.

“All done, then? Shall we go?”

________

The prickly unease returns as they walk. Not only does she not take him to any of the surrounding homes, as he’d assumed she would...

She leads him outside the town, into the surrounding woods.

Her footsteps are weary as she glances back at him every few moments. He doesn’t expect her to speak, and he doesn’t attempt to make conversation. Instead, he glances between the trees, trying to discern just why he feels so _uncomfortable_.

There is always a catch.

If she truly thinks she might be able to overpower him here...he snorts at the very thought. She doesn’t say anything, of course.

Perhaps she has _friends_ , waiting in ambush.

Before long, they’ve turned off the main road onto a well-trodden path. She has to push some of the branches back as she walks, thoughtfully holding them just a moment longer for him. Charming, but unnecessary. The way opens up to show him a small quaint cottage. As the woman’s strides grow more confident, he knows without having to ask that this is her home.

The smell of the woods gives way to the scent of various herbs as they approach. Some are vaguely recognisable, others he has no idea of. She leads him into the wooden home; the slats are dark, the room feels small, yet somehow it feels oddly _warm_.

Arianna bids him with a gentle gesture to sit at the table in her kitchen. He reclines in his seat, glancing about. Charming.

“What a nice place.” He can’t see anything especially out of the ordinary, either. “I like it.” She reddens slightly at the compliment, setting her basket down.

> _Thank you, sir..._

He stares at the formality for a moment.

“Oh, I didn’t introduce myself, did I? How terribly rude of me. My apologies. My name is Solus dus Galvus. No need for sir.” He takes one last look around the oddly comforting space. “You should introduce yourself as Arianna _bas_ Rowen. I don’t suppose you have any Garlean licenses...?”

Her blank stare speaks volumes. He waves a hand carelessly. Understandable. He’s beginning to get a hang of her situation. He sympathises; why go anywhere when you can simply stay somewhere safe and warm?

“I’ll have someone send them over. Now, about that tea...” The subject finished, his smile is easy and light as he prompts her. With a start, she quickly begins to prepare a cup of drink for him as water heats on a modest flame.

There is nothing here. There’s no reason to even begin to suspect her. Simply a quiet herbalist making ends meet in her little home in the woods...

Nothing fantastical or otherworldly about her. She is _normal_.

The tea is warm, sweet; he asks on a whim whether she has any blends for sleep, and she promises to give him some. The longer he stays, the more she relaxes, whatever apparent misgivings she’d had to his presence disappearing. Just as his of hers.

And all the better for it.

Once it’s eventually time to take his leave, he stands from her presence and fishes open his coin pouch.

“Here you are, for the tea and...the other tea, I suppose. Thank you.”

That anxious sensation returns, and he’s reminded once more --

There is always a catch...

But there is none this time. She merely smiles serenely at him and sends him on his way with a small bag of dried herbs. A different sort to the one she’d used in her tea for him. It serves him well, up until he scrapes the bottom of the bag with his spoon and has to tip the remainders of the leaves out. Never has he slept so well as when he brews a cup of this before bed.

________ 

When she approaches him this day, she seems almost _pleased_ to see him. Solus tries not to allow such a fact to cloud his ego.

A difficult thing, all things considered.

She holds out a greeting for him, asking how he is today.

“I’m quite exhausted.” His head tilts slightly as he observes her. “I suppose you wouldn’t mind if I snuck to your bed for a nap...?”

Her reaction has the corner of his mouth curving in amusement. Almost immediately, her entire face reddens as she stares at him with wide eyes. Before she can fumble to reply, he continues.

“I was just joking.” He sighs quietly. “Though I suppose I wouldn’t really turn down a chance to sleep. I likely shouldn’t.”

Arianna regards him, her expression strangely resolute. She turns to a new page in her book.

> _I could bring you tea. Not for sleeping, for staying awake._

Solus blinks at the paper for a moment.

“Would you? I’d appreciate it.” Did she have a drink for _everything_?

With a soft nod, she goes back the way she had come; when she returns, along with her basket, she holds a mug of hot tea.

Holding the cup in one hand, be brings it to up to inhale the steam. Already he can feel the weight on his eyelids lessening. Curious. And it tastes just as delicious as it smells. He thinks he can feel the remnants of sugar crystals on his tongue.

“Marvelous, thank you.” The soldier gives her a small smile, and makes to reach for his coin purse; she quickly shakes her head, reaching out a hand as if to stop him. She halts just short of touching his wrist.

“No money? Are you sure?” She nods. Unfortunately, he can’t resist the urge to prod at her again. “I know I’m your favourite customer, but preferential treatment is still a _bit_...I do hope no one is listening to us...”

He cannot help but laugh at her reaction as she gapes at him, then turns her face away.

________ 

It’s ridiculous for him to feel anxious of anyone finding him here. He’s merely enjoying a cup of tea on his break.

There’s nothing, no one to find.

So it vexes him that he can never shake off that sensation as he approaches the cottage. As if he’s doing something he _shouldn’t_.

It’s not as if he cares. he does what he wants. And if any of his colleagues have anything to say about it, it hasn’t been to his face.

So Solus doesn’t care.

The irritating feeling fades with every sip of warm, soothing tea.

________

There is _something_.

Something in the air. It nags and prickles against his skin, if only he could scratch it out. Then maybe he might feel some relief. But he knows not what it is, not even _where_ it is, so there is nothing he can do but grit his teeth and bear with it.

Perhaps it is simply the poor weather striking at his nerves. It’s dark. It’s been raining for hours; he’s soaking wet and cold. Annoyed, mostly. He wants to go home, drink tea, _sleep_. But there’s no rest for the righteous; he’ll wait until his turn to leave. He glances at the chronometer on his wrist. It should be about time...

A sharp clicking of heels on pavement behind him catches his attention; the sound stifles and grows hesitant as their owner approaches. He turns.

It’s her. His previously tense muscles relax as he lets loose a sigh past his lips.

“Oh, the fine maiden from the woods.” Solus cocks a brow; her basket this time is covered in cloth, her head burdened by a large cap. Even her hands are covered now. The rain? Ah, she cannot write like this, can she —

“Going to the market?”

She gives a small nod.

“At a time like this? I assume it must be some sort of dire emergency.” He’s vaguely disappointed she can’t stay and chat. One curse of the rain is that there’s no one to even watch.

All he gets in response is another nod -- stiffer this time, but a new expression all on its own. “Well, I shan’t keep you. Go on.” No sense in causing the woman undue stress, with whatever it is on her mind...

He shifts away. Something about her motion is oddly clumsy this time as she makes to trot past him. The sensation grows and grows like a bubble threatening to burst.

Her foot stubs against the uneven pavement. He reaches to grasp her upper arm, but she flinches away and sprawls onto the ground. There’s indignation and confusion at her reaction --

Ah, there it is. Her dress.

The bubble swells and deflates all in a singular moment.

Where her feet should be are not heels, but _hooves_.

His mind goes blank. He can hear nothing but the rain and empty noise in his head.

 _Her_...?

His tongue clicks sharply against his teeth. If this were a dream, it would be quite nice if he could wake up _now_...

Arianna’s fearful expression as she stares up at him tells him otherwise. Another soft sigh leaves him, and he reaches a hand to grasp at hers, pulling her to her feet.

It all makes sense. All of it. He almost feels dizzy.

All because he hadn’t wanted to...

One blessing of the rain is that there is no one else here to see.

Clenching his jaw, he gives her hand a squeeze -- not to bruise, nor to intimidate, but some vague reassurance. He isn’t mute, but he’s lost his words for the moment, and he doesn’t want her to run away.

Deep in thought, he pulls her in the direction of the woods, and she follows. They have a lot of talking to do, after all.


	2. The Apothecary

Solus herds the woman into her home, shutting the door behind them both. The rain drumming upon the roof sounds strangely calming here. Or maybe it’s simply the house in general.

Sighing wearily, he drops her gloved hand and throws himself into the kitchen chair he’s sat at so many times before. He leans back; the front legs lift into the air. If he wants, he could probably count the leaves of the dried herbs that hang from the ceiling. He throws an arm across his face.

The clicks of he -- hooves on the floorboards rattles within his mind as she walks cautiously around him. He finally understands.

The question that instinctively comes to his lips is _why did you never tell me?_

But he knows the answer without having to ask.

The Garlean Empire hates her kind. Savages, revenants...the sort of humans with very inhuman features. And far more likely to be in possession of the “gift” of magic.

Slowly, he lowers his arm and lets the chair legs touch the floor once more.

“Whether you believe me or not, I have no intention of turning you in.” He presses his palm hard against the bridge of his nose. Staring at her through narrowed eyes, his gaze roves from her apprehensive expression to the hat she has yet to remove.

And the gloves...he’s never seen her so _covered_ before. He’s seen her hands plenty of times. He is _achingly_ curious. There must be a reason why she’s chosen to hide them.

But even he knows it would be terribly inappropriate to ask.

So instead an awkward silence drifts across them; the woman fidgeting nervously, as if she’s unsure of what to do, while Solus teeters precariously between simply letting his eyes shut and pretending this was all a dream, or getting up and leaving entirely.

Oh, he knows he can’t do that. Not in her...condition. It’s too -- dangerous to leave her like this...

Not to mention he should be getting back to his post. He can’t let the next watch catch it empty.

“It is...it’s all right...” he murmurs, though he’s not sure whether it’s to reassure himself or her. She doesn’t speak, of course. Arianna hasn’t even moved for what seems like years. He glances at her again, brows furrowing. Whatever it is that ails her...

“Just...I think you should likely stay here...until you, ah, turn -- turn back to...normal...”

The words feel like ash on his tongue, bitter and vile, and he cannot for the life of him discern _why_. He is simply stating _facts_.

He feels even worse when she turns her face away with nothing more than a stiff nod, her lips formed in a thin line. But then something like alarm or shock blooms across her features, and she quickly turns back to him with wide eyes.

Arianna’s mouth opens, then shuts; she pulls the cloth off her basket, removing her book.

> _I was going to the market. I need to buy something._

Such had been his assumption, of course. Though he knows not what -- it’s plain as day that she can’t go anywhere as she is.

“Perhaps I could get them for you. Just...” He speaks over her stare of blank astonishment. “Make a list for me, and I’ll bring them over.”

 _No need for coin_ , is what he wants to say, but the thought of not knowing what she needs makes him pause.

“What were you looking to buy? Or get?”

His intention is to leave no room for argument, and yet she musses gloved fingers over the creases of her book anyway. Does she not wish to burden him? Or is she anxious for another reason? Solus shifts upon the chair, armour creaking lightly.

“As I said before, I shan’t report you. There’s no need. So...” He clears his throat. “Please, don’t be afraid. All right?”

Arianna’s green eyes peer at him from beneath the brim of her hat. Her teeth sink into her lower lip. But eventually, the tenseness seeps from her limbs, and she gives him a small nod.

 _Ah, good._ She trusts him.

He isn’t sure whether he’s relieved or...pleased by this revelation.

It’s a few moments before she begins to write for him. Never before has he ever been bored waiting for her, but this time he finds himself almost restlessly anxious, awaiting her neatly printed words. It feels like an eternity until she wordlessly pushes the book toward him.

> _Down the second alley on third street, there is a small herb shop with a large bell in the window. An elderly woman owns it. I need the following ingredients: 3 stalks of blabberwort, 1 vial of pixie dust, 2 bunches of foxmittens, and 1 pouch of pumpkin seeds._

________

Solus has never heard of any of those ingredients, apart from the seeds, but then again he has never been especially interested in potionmaking...or witchcraft, anyway.

Because, that is what it is -- he’s sickeningly aware. Witchcraft. These likely aren’t normal ingredients.

Aside from the pumpkin seeds.

Alchemy, he confesses, he _has_ been curious about, but never had an opportunity to try.

She had endeavoured to give him a pouch of coins, though he had pushed it back to her. There would be no need. He -- doesn’t _want_ her to have to pay for this errand. It’s the least he can do after she had nearly been caught.

Though there is no particular reason he _should_ be doing this. He simply. Wants to.

Cyrus is already where Solus _should_ be, his hair tied back in its customary ponytail. His grin is easy and friendly beneath the lamplight.

“Lucky it was me coming on after you.” He tilts his head in curiosity. “Where _were_ you? Chasing after ghosts?”

“None of your business right now, Cyrus.” Solus sighs, coming to a halt in front of him. His shoulders sag. “...But I’d appreciate you not breathing a word of it.” Whatever sting there is behind his words, Cyrus doesn’t seem to feel it.

“‘Course not -- I wouldn’t _dream_ of it.”

Solus believes him. Why ever would he not? “Thank you.”

“Nonsense! However...” He trails off uncertainly, his gaze worried. “Everything all right? It’s not like you to just leave your post.”

Yet another sigh. There’s that -- prickly feeling again, but not because of Arianna this time. “I’ll explain...another time.” Briefly, he pats the other man upon the shoulder. “All right?”

 _This_ might be a lie. He’s not really sure if he can even explain this. Or if it’s his place to. But surely, if anyone could understand, it would be his best friend, no?

\-- And yet he grimaces to think of the danger this would undoubtedly put him in.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Cyrus’ smile is just as effortless as it always is. “Whatever you’re dealing with right now, it’s fine.” His expression turns mischievous. “Even _if_ you just needed an impulsive romp with the tea girl.” His utterly _hilarious_ joke is punctuated by mirthful laughter as he slaps a hand against Solus’ shoulder in kind.

Solus, meanwhile, grits his teeth, exhaling loudly. Cyrus can already tell that he’s completely unamused by his harmless jab. How does he even manage to be so enthusiastic in this weather?

“Oh, come now, don’t be so _sour_.”

“...I have some business to attend to,” the Garlean soldier says smoothly, doing his best to straighten his furrowed brows. “So, if you’ll excuse me...”

“Oh, surely, I wouldn’t want to keep your rendezvous waiting.”

“Do shut up, Cyrus. I’ll see you shortly.”

He counts the streets as he walks. It doesn’t take him long to realise she hadn’t mentioned which side the alley ought to be on, but the bell isn’t difficult to notice. From the outside in the dim lighting, the place seems to be some sort of dingy, tiny apothecary. He’s somewhat surprised it’s even still open at this hour.

Though -- perhaps only a few people would know to look for it.

That sense of prickly unease returns; for some reason, Solus holds his breath as he grips the handle to drag himself into the unassuming shop. It’s not too much larger than Arianna’s parlour, though instead of being...a house and a treatment area, this is very much simply a store. There’s none of the amenities he associates to her cottage, albeit the scent is...similar.

Not exactly the same.

His gaze quickly finds an elderly woman toward the left side of the store, behind a large counter. And, for all her years and her wizened appearance, she’s not slow to notice him, either. Her gaze is piercing as the Garlean soldier puts on his best plastic smile.

Instead of approaching her, he takes his time to wander through the shelves of dried and boxed herbs and other eccentricities. The pumpkin seeds are not difficult to find, and he quickly snatches up one bag, as had been asked of him. But the painful minutes pass, and he cannot find anything even remotely approaching _blabberwort_ , _pixie dust_ , or _foxmittens_. It’s becoming disconcertingly clear that he’ll need to ask that old woman for help...

And that these are not the sort of ingredients they want Garleans to see.

Pixie dust. Not a single man of Garlemald would admit to the existence of “pixies”, much less their _dust_.

With a heavy sigh, he finally makes his way to the woman behind the counter.

“Good evening, ma’am. Terrible weather we’re having, no?” No response. He resists the urge to shrug, and clears his throat, setting the seeds upon the counter. He’s read over the piece of paper Arianna had given him countless times before, and recites it calmly. “I was informed I could find...blabberwort, pixie dust, and foxmittens here. I can’t seem to find them on your shelves, however; would you mind giving me a hand?”

He had thought the amounts for each to be somewhat...small, for whatever it is she needs them for, but perhaps she thinks this is the best way to not trouble him. He hadn’t been about to argue with her.

The silence stretches on uncomfortably; Solus thinks he can hear the rain outside.

“Blabberwort...?” the woman echoes, her brows knitting together. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you are talking about. There is no such herb, as far as I know.”

Ah, of course. She knows nothing. Her gaze flicks from his face to the hilt of his gunblade for the barest of instances.

“I know...I _know_ , I am far from your regular customers,” Solus says, after a moment of thought. “But I -- know, from a reliable source, that I might find what I seek here.”

The woman crosses her arms, her eyes narrowing further into near-indiscernible slits. “And who might this ‘reliable source’ be?”

His jaw clenches, teeth grinding together. He had hoped he wouldn’t have had to reveal her name. But -- surely the herbalist must frequent this shop...if she had asked him to come here, no...?

“...Miss Rowen requested I retrieve these items for her.”

“Arianna?” Her hands slam upon the counter with more force than expected, jangling metal bracelets. “What have you done with her?”

“ _Nothing_ , I have done _nothing_ , she is fine -- ”

“Then why is she not here herself?”

“She asked me to -- she’s -- ”

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you, _Garlean_.”

A low growl builds at the back of his throat; this old harpy is testing his patience. Regardless that she has every right to be wary of him.

“ _Listen to me_ ,” he hisses out, “if I had truly wanted to, I could have simply burnt this shop to the ground. I’ve no intention of harming or hurting anyone here, she -- she -- ”

He fumbles with his satchel pocket and pulls out the neatly folded note, spreading it upon the counter for her to see.

“She asked me to bring them for her. See?”

The woman stares at the parchment with narrowed eyes. Her fingers trace the edge.

“It certainly _looks_ like her handwriting...”

“Because it _is_. And no, before you ask, I didn’t press a gun to her head and demand her to write it _for_ me. She asked. I promise this.” _At the very least._

“Why isn’t she here?”

Oh, for the love of --

“And how long have you known?”

The soldier rolls his eyes skyward. “She’s _sick_ , I’ll have you know. Which is why I’ve come in her stead.” Not technically a lie, he supposes. “And I’ve -- ”

“And don’t you try to lie to me, young man.”

Solus’ jaw clenches as he glares at her, arms crossed. “...She told me just a few bells past.” If telling and falling over pavement could be considered the same. A sharp exhale leaves him. “Now, I am _trying_ to _help_ her, so if you wouldn’t _mind_ ” -- he slams his coin purse on the counter, the coins within jingling -- “I would like to buy what she asked for.”

Instead of responding, the old woman levels him with a sharp gaze. Not about to be cowed, the man stares back.

The tension breaks as the woman smirks, though she does not speak to him. She claps her wrinkly hands together.

“Shtola! You heard the man. What do you think?”

A woman with eyes as silver as her hair shuffles out the back of the shop, her fingertips gently dragging along one of the shelves as she moves to lean against the wall. Something feels off about her -- her -- movements...? She does not look directly _at_ him --

“He seems honest.” Her head tilts. “But that is just what I can assume from his voice. There’s far more, I recall, that can be discerned from a man’s expression.”

“He certainly has spirit...more than I can say about most of them.”

“And I don’t think Arianna would ask simply _anyone_. Come to think of it, she _did_ mention talking to a ‘charming Garlean soldier’ last she visited...”

“Psh. I’ve seen nothing _charming_ about this one.”

The silver-haired woman begins to laugh.

\-- More than the apparent revelation that Arianna had described him as _charming_ , he’s somewhat confounded as to how a mute and an apparently blind woman might even begin talk to one another at all. But more importantly than that --

“Forgive me for the interruption, but I really must be getting back to her...”

“What is your name?” the younger of the two women (Shtola?) suddenly asks. Her gaze is unseeing and yet still manages to be sharp as flint. “We will at least know if you are lying then. I doubt she would have had the inclination to mention her beau’s name to someone who held her hostage.”

Beau...? They certainly do take great joy in _teasing_ him.

“...My name is Solus dus Galvus.”

The old woman glances at the younger. “I believe she did mention a ‘Solus’.”

“But perchance he has betrayed her trust...?”

“Mmm...too true...there is no way to properly tell, is there -- ”

Do they really intend to just sit around gossiping like old women while Arianna waits white-knuckled in her own home?

“The longer you two stand prattling about,” Solus snaps, breaking their musings, “the longer it will take me to return to her, and the larger the chances of her being discovered are. Are you going to allow me to help her, or _not_?”

Even Shtola’s eyes seem to widen. Then her lips curve into a knowing smile.

“...I will get what you need. How many of each was it, again?”

He wants to ask how a blind woman should be taking any of his orders, but bites his tongue. The old woman reads off the list, and the silver-haired woman gives a nod. Solus leaves the shop a few minutes later, small brown bag in hand.

“Take care of her, will you?” the old woman asks just before he reaches the door.

“...Why would I not?”

The air outside is crisp and _welcoming_ after the cloying stickiness of that little hovel. Cyrus’ gaze immediately finds the nondescript little bag as he exits the marketplace.

“Sol, I had no idea you had it in you...to buy...”

“...What?” He can practically hear the laughter threatening to break free from Cyrus’ throat. He has a feeling he won’t like whatever he’s about to say, but he bites anyway.

“Contraceptives...”

“I swear to whatever gods are left in this sorry world...”

________

The soldier knocks upon the door to make his presence known, then lightly touches upon the doorknob; it is unlocked. He makes his way within.

Not much has changed in the cottage -- except the scent of it all is far more welcoming than before. And -- she has gotten a fire going. Arianna stokes it gently, glancing up at him with first a hint of wariness, and then a shy smile.

“I’ve brought what you asked for,” Solus says as he approaches, carefully holding the bag out to her. She takes it from him gently, peering into it, and giving him a tiny nod of satisfaction. Placing it upon her table, she quickly retrieves her book for him.

> _Thank you, very much. I will give you money back in compensation._

Solus shakes his head, sighing slightly. “I’ve already said, there’s no need for that.”

Her brows furrow, but she does not try to argue.

> _Do you mind waiting here for a bit? I will not be long._

“Not at all. Take whatever time you need.” He still feels the chill and the stifling unease of his impromptu adventures; it should be nice to warm up by the hearth before he has to go. He stoops to sit near the fireplace upon a cushion laid out beside it. After a moment’s thought, he decides to remove his gauntlets, and draws his chilled hands near the flames.

He almost doesn’t notice when Arianna leaves, the crinkling of the bag the only indication she has gone. He wonders what she’s doing with those ingredients. And, come to think of it -- how has she...avoided detection for so long? The unease he had felt around her before...

Even now, he can feel it disintegrating, burnt away by the fire, stifled and snuffed out by the calming scents within her home. It almost makes him not want to think.

He has no idea how much time passes, but he more _feels_ than _hears_ her return. Glancing upward, he nearly jolts in surprise upon finally seeing her -- 

She’s removed the hat, the gloves and now -- now she simply stands before him as she always has. There’s not a thing strange or inhuman about her -- he suspects that even if he were to lift the hem of her skirt, he would see naught but human feet there.

“Ah, you are...back to -- normal, then...” Just like before, the words have an unpleasant taste to them. He’s not sure why.

Things should feel _normal_ now, too, but instead they simply feel...off.

Arianna gives another small nod, arranging her skirts as she comes to sit near him. Her fingers push a few strands of dark hair behind her ears; he can’t help but wonder how her hands had looked earlier...beneath those gloves of hers...

And what had she been hiding with her hat?

Green eyes meet his, before she looks away, biting at her lower lip. Her hands quickly find her book once more. This time, it takes her a while to write, though the wait is not at all unpleasant. The crackling of the fire and the sound of her writing utensil against the paper put him at ease. He smiles at her faintly once she passes the book to him.

> _I suppose I should explain. The ingredients I asked you to get -- the blabberwort, pixie dust, foxmittens, and pumpkin seeds -- are used in a sort of alchemical potion called a glamour. I normally still have some, but this time I was careless._

There’s a strange flush to her cheeks, he notes as he reads. Or perhaps simply the firelight?

> _Our kind -- I believe you call us “revenants” -- use this potion to hide our inhuman features. It is simple enough to make, and typically lasts a while...and the ingredients are not too difficult to find, if you know how. Still, I ~~was not~~ did not think properly, and I apologise. I apologise that you had to go through this trouble for me._

This time, he has to speak, sighing lightly as he shakes his head. “It wasn’t any trouble.” Much of one, anyway. That is not a lie. “So please, don’t worry about it.” He looks up at her over the book, and offers her another smile. Instead of nodding, or even smiling in kind, she looks away skittishly. Had he done something wrong...?

> _And I must thank you, for not wanting to tell anyone about it. And for helping me. I truly cannot properly convey my thanks to you. Or my appreciation, for not ~~throw~~ casting me aside. Thank you, Solus. Is there anything I might do for you?_

As he reads the last few lines of her note to him, he hears Cyrus’ treacherous voice at the back of his head. Idiot --

Clearing his throat, he has to resist the urge to slam the book shut. It would do naught but alarm the innocent herbalist sitting all too close to him.

 _Innocent_. Perhaps in the past, he would have scoffed at the word. And yet...

Yet he knows without a doubt that he would never tell anyone else about this secret of theirs. Certainly no one he wouldn’t trust with his life.

“All I ask for is a cup of tea before I leave. Couldn’t possibly leave without one of those, eh?”

Her expression of bewilderment fades into a relieved smile, punctuated by a soft blush. Gently, she tears out several pages from her book. Holding the parchment in her hand, she glances toward her fireplace, and then hesitates.

> _May I have the list of ingredients I gave you, please?_

“Of course.”

He watches as she quietly burns the evidence of their forbidden conversation.


End file.
